


A God's Mercy

by Chechilia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-19 03:51:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19967584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chechilia/pseuds/Chechilia
Summary: In the aftermath of a battle against Cenred's men, Arthur goes back to his tent, uncaring of the war, of his Knights, of his own injuries. Inside the tent, he knows, Merlin is waiting.





	A God's Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Considering the sheer number of WIPs sitting in my computer, I've made the executive decision not to write any new stories before finishing the ones I already started (I reopened drafts I haven't touched in years, seriously). I don't know how long I'll stick to it, but in the meantime, I hope you'll enjoy this one !

The camp is settled at the top of the hill.

From there, the knights have an unaltered view of the valley, miles of land stretching under the sentinel's gaze, the soft grass below trampled on by hundreds of men. They are far enough from the battlefield, as to not be perturbed by the scavengers - crows feasting on flesh, men on despair and some discarded pieces of jewelry. They are close enough, too : even a bird flying through Camelot's defenses wouldn't go unnoticed.

But Cenred has ordered the retreat, and Arthur knows there won't be another attack before the morrow. Defeated on foreign ground, his thirst for conquest met with the iron will of the Knights of Camelot, the King of Essetir will have to regroup, and prepare his next offensive.

Now is time to tend to the wounded - and bury the dead.

Steps heavy, Arthur makes his way between the tents, nodding at his knights when they call out to him. His body is bruised, there's a gash on his arm that won't stop bleeding and pain is like a pulse in his neck, but he walks on, determined, heart beating a rhythm that is not his own.

The flap of his tent billows under the breeze, the harsh red marring the wide blue sky. It's like a wound, Arthur thinks. Like a wound in a bleeding heart, the anguish lost in the crumpling wind. This is where he wants to lose himself, headless of his responsibilities, of his injuries, of the pain wrapped around him and grounding his every steps.

He knows Merlin is waiting for him inside.

He is there when Arthur carefully closes the tent, hiding them from the world outside and its everlasting miseries. Back turned, head bowed, he exudes so much fear and rage that Arthur would have trembled if not for the swell of his heart.

"Merlin," he sighs.

Merlin's eyes are cold when he turns toward him, cold as the winter wind, cold as the touch of the dead. It seizes Arthur's heart as once, a clench of the lungs, breathing cut short. He lets Merlin's gaze travel along his skin like a blade, lets him map the cuts and bruises, let him sweep along the scars to the deepest parts of him.

Merlin remains silent, and turns to gather some ointment, clean bandages, a basin of clear water. He jerks his head toward Arthur's chair, the rich velvet an insult to the horrors of war, and Arthur follows the command, knowing that his title of king is lost in here, and that his name, his sole name, is all the more precious for it. Nimble fingers work at his armor, taking away pieces of metal to reveal the man beneath, and Arthur almost shivers at the vulnerability of it. His gaze trails a caress down Merlin's neck, the arch of his pale throat, and he longs to place a kiss there, against the fluttering heartbeat.

But he knows fear doesn't allow for tenderness, so he resolves to stand still, letting Merlin clean his skin from the sweat and blood, aware of the tremble of his hands, knowing Merlin's relief like he knows his own, pulsing like a heart. 

On the battlefield, Arthur is every inch the king his knights vowed to follow. He guides his men, fights alongside them, and earns his honor in blood.

Here though, he can't contain the words that stumble past his lips, all pride forgotten :

"Gods, Merlin..."

He hears the sob, a merciless sound that lodges itself in Arthur's chest like a splinter. The ache spreads , and he can't stop it, can't stop the crippling ice of fear from finding its way. He gathers Merlin in his arms instead, breathes in the scent of the storm he knows is brewing, right there, beneath Merlin's collarbone. He lets Merlin cry against his throat, whispers soothing words against his hair, presses a kiss there, lips dried by the battle and the screams of his men dying.

"I thought I had lost you," Merlin murmurs, shivering in Arthur's embrace, and Arthur feels the magic here, coiling tight.

"You won't, Merlin," he replies, throat tight against the promise he knows isn't his own to keep. "I'm here. I'm right here."

He tugs at Merlin's hands and his servant goes willingly, straddling Arthur before removing his tunic in one smooth gesture. Arthur's hands are rough on his skin, trailing down his flanks before pressing at the small of his back to pull him impossibly closer. Merlin shudders at the contact, his eyes too blue where his eyelids flutter shut. Arthur undresses him like a warrior would, without delicate caresses and fleeting touches, and takes him in hand, the calluses of his palm rubbing against the velvet-like skin of Merlin's length.

Merlin cries out and spreads his thighs wide, allowing Arthur access, offering all of himself to his lover's hands.

Arthur invokes his name as he claims his mouth, pours word of love there in open-mouthed kisses, his lips mapping the planes and angles of Merlin's body as he reaches out to grab the ointment. He coats his fingers in a generous amount before pressing them against Merlin's skin, right at his entrance. Merlin's back arches as he is breached, Arthur's fingers rubbing delicately at the rim before pressing inside, and a loud moan claws out of his throat.

Arthur can feel the urgency crackling in the air, the desire to consume all-encompassing, and yet he prepares Merlin's body with care, if it is the first time, as if they haven't shared a bed for the past seven years, knowing the other's body as intimately as their own. Merlin shakes as he sinks down on him, mouth open around a soundless scream, and Arthur steadies him with one hand as he thrusts up, senses heightened beyond pleasure, a burning in the soul igniting right where they are joined.

The tent hides them from view but the sound of their coupling still carry, each moan and cry etched in the wind outside. It is no secret, that the love shared between the king and his sorcerer is not that of brother in arms, nor is it the claims of loyalty of a master and his servant. It runs deeper, they know, and no one is surprised to hear Arthur cry out Merlin's name as he comes.

Merlin's body is wracked with tremors of pleasure, and his thighs tremble, but Arthur doesn't let up, encourages him with a hand on his hips while the other wraps around his length :

"Come on, Merlin," he urges, still lodged inside, hard even though he just came. "I'm here. I'm here."

Merlin flings his head back with a cry, his cheeks wet from sweat and tears that Arthur tastes on his lips, and he's sobbing by the time he gets down from his high, clutching at Arthur's shoulders as if afraid to let him go.

"Not alone," he pleads, broken. "Don't ever ask me to let you go alone again."

"Shh," Arthur murmurs. "I know. I know. I won't."

The promise hangs in the air, heavy like a vow. Arthur knows he can't keep Merlin away from him, can't protect him no matter how much he tries. But the fear in his heart is reflected in Merlin's eyes, and he knows this war is one they'll have to win together - or die trying.

So he kisses Merlin's lips, fleetingly, and prays for the Gods to keep him safe.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading <3


End file.
